


Verse and Worse

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Season Seven fic in which the Bloody Awful poetry of William and Spike becomes an issue of concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Silver clouds scudded across the sky, hiding the moon for moments before moving onwards, chasing each other on their endless journey. The wind which pushed them was equally intent on beating up the trees in a small, neglected graveyard, not one where the popular demons hung out, but a grimy, tired-looking place visited by few self-respecting creatures of the night, or even the twilight.

 

The practical implications of the wind, the trees and the debris were far from lost on one of the few individuals bold, or stupid, enough to venture out into the boneyard that night. Too many bloody bits of sharp-ended wood flying about for one thing. Dust and grit in the eyes and mouth for another. And, by California standards it was sodding cold. Even an undead denizen of the underworld could feel that. He might be room temperature, but he had his preferences as to what temperature that room was, and this temperature was a long way away from it.

 

Cursing imaginatively, Spike thrust aside another tangled mass of foliage before halting in satisfaction before a small family tomb. The long-dead Busch family had not been able to afford the sort of ostentatious mausoleum that had provided Spike with shelter, but their neat little memorial had another advantage – it was badly-constructed, and the slabs forming its sides could be pushed aside easily to create access to a cache. It was the work of a moment to push his hand inside and grasp a wooden box. Checking that no-one and no thing was watching, Spike slid his property inside his coat and stood.

 

His planned swirl into the darkness was frustrated by a tree-root. "Buggering hell! Can't I do anything right?" He limped melodramatically to the closest stump and sat, rubbing absently at his ankle. Perhaps he could have just one little glance? It had been a long time, after all. He sniffed. No-one likely to be about to see anything here at least. Tentatively he began to lift the lid.

 

"Spike, what're you doing?"

 

Startled, he twisted, grabbed for purchase and collapsed into an undignified heap. "Sod it, Bit! What are you doing here? I've told you before about creatures of the night, inadvisability of stalking of. If you think I'm gonna explain to your sis when you get eaten, you have another think coming. Time for little girls to be safe in their beds."

 

"I saw you hanging about outside the house. I told you what I'd do if you hurt Buffy again. I just wanted to check you weren't planning anything."

 

"Even for you that's feeble, Platelet. You protect Big Sis by following the Big Bad into a deserted little cemetery. What were you gonna do if I did turn out evil? Whine me to death?"

 

Even as the words left his mouth he regretted them, and the look of pain in her eyes hurt almost as much as the hearty jab of her foot into his shin. "Don't be such a pig, Spike. Tell me what you're doing or I'll tell Buffy you left Xander's house."

 

"And that's filling me with fear because? Oh yes, it isn't. Slayer don't own me, pet, and you've made it quite plain what you feel about me now. Not that I didn't deserve it, but it means you don't have any sort of say in my movements. Now go home to bed."

 

"Not until I've seen what's in that box. Could be anything. It's my duty to protect my sister."

 

"Anyone tell you you're cute when you're self-righteous? 'Cos if they did they got it wrong. Piss off, Nibblet. This stuff's private."

 

Oh bollocks. That had hit home. And Summers women in tears had him bang to rights every time. He reached awkwardly towards her. "Look, don't cry. It's just – this stuff's private, you know? Carried it about with me a very long time. Not too sure I'm ready to share it yet."

 

He was clearly on the ropes. Big blue eyes, brimming with tears expertly applied the final twist of the knife. With barely a hint of a whine in her voice, Dawn pushed gently. "Private? You mean personal? Is it something for Buffy? Show me? Please?" And just to make sure she reached out, twitched the little casket from his fingers and flipped it open. He made a half-hearted gesture to retake the prize , but she delved deep into the box. –Her fingers would meet no jewels, no fabulous weapon, no sigil of power. Scraps of paper crinkled under her hand with that crispy sound only very old documents could make.

 

If a vampire could blush his face would be the colour of beetroot. As it was, the expression of his face was almost comic in its discomfort. "Just old papers, luv. Nothing would interest a scrap like you. Not even modern writing – too much bother to read it. Just give 'em back, right?"

 

He couldn't have signalled more clearly that these things mattered, to him at least. Just what sort of bleeding idiot was he? At least it was too dark for her to read just there. "Give 'em back, hey? You're chilly, need to be safe home in bed."

 

Dawn shivered ostentatiously. "A gentleman would lend me his duster."

 

"Not been a gentleman this century or more. Now give the box over, there's a good lass."

 

"Walk me home first? "

 

He gave up. A quick shrug and he swung round. They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, both too busy thinking to talk. It couldn't last, though – this was a Summers woman and they were relentless when it came to shopping, fighting and information. Spike tried to get a story ready to satisfy the inevitable return of Miss Inquisitive.

 

Much to his surprise, though, they reached Revello without the subject rising again. Dawn chatted cheerily about school, her new friends, the amazing absence of suckiness in some of her teachers and other soothingly brainless teen topics. None of this needed more than an occasional grunt in reply, at most, "Is that so?" He couldn't help but feel she was planning something, but he was willing to let it go.

 

As they reached the house she turned and presented the box to him. "It's pretty. I had one like that for my things once, but Anya broke it." He resisted the obvious lure. "It's old, pet. Get Sis to give you a new one if you need something." Determined to avoid the pleading eyes, he fussed with the casket, putting it deep into an inside pocket. "How you getting in? Door, or need a hoist up?"

 

Eyeroll – predictable, really. "Door? And call out Honey, I'm home while I'm about it, I suppose? Window, of course. A lift-up would be good."

 

Later, much later, Spike saw how suspicious her docility was. At that point all he cared about was that the questions had stopped. He pushed her up till she was able to clamber onto the overhanging roof, waved and turned towards Maison Harris.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike, and we, see just how bad Spike's poetry can be.

Alone in what for the sake of argument he would call his room, Spike sank onto the bed and took out his precious box. Lovingly he lifted out the papers, one by one. They were yellow, most of them, with a brownish colour to the ink, and the writing was that beautiful copperplate which was once beaten into all children. The first he looked at brought a twisted grin – "effulgent"? What sort of pillock wrote that? Cecily had done the right thing, if possibly for the wrong reasons.

 

He moved on. Older poems, all equally painful.

 

 

_  
O here thy hands let fall the gather'd flower,  
Might break thro' clouded memories once again  
On thy lost self. O come to me_

And flash into a frolic of song .  
I wish for you, a gleam as of the moon,  
When first she peers along the tremulous deep,  
Flees wavering o'er thy face, and chases away  
That shadow and your hesitance of love

Burst from a swimming fleece of winter gray,

I know your heart is secret giv'n to me  
And robes me in his day from head to feet --  
"Cecily!" and I was folded in thine arms.1

 

Self-indulgent, fantasising crap. He couldn't even remember the girl's face now, and all he felt was thanks for her rejection, brutal as it had been. The agony of what he'd done might stay with him, but the memories of a century with the dark enchantress were there too, and worth holding on to.

 

Under the oldest sheets were one or two more recent. Writing hadn't exactly been a big priority in the century of blood and mayhem, but in the lulls he'd needed something to do that wasn't playing at sodding tea parties.

 

_  
Dark love has entered my hands,  
Ascended through my arms,  
In my heart the tree of dark love has grown_

Wood staking through my heart

The branches grow out of me, like arms.2

 

 

Just as derivative. Bugger it all, why had he ever bothered? Dru never read them – she'd just laughed, and with bloody good reason.

 

The last thing he took from the box was a small, modern pad of paper and a cheap ballpoint pen. He felt furtive even handling the things, but opened the booklet and stared at what was written inside. It was still recognisably copperplate script, after all these years. He might write rubbish, but at least it looked good.

 

He gripped the pen between his fingers and his lower lip between his teeth.

 

_  
The curve of her lips, the glint of her eye,_

The twist of her hips, make me want to fly,

 

One vicious movement and another ball of paper hit the wall.

 

_  
I have seen gold shimmer, rich and bright,_

I have seen the moon stand, goddess of the night,

I have seen the rich red blood pulse in a vein  


 

Pulsing vein? Bloody hell, no.

 

As dawn started to stain the black of the sky the pile of crumpled papers threatened to block the door and the pad was empty. Spike paced back and forth, not exactly a challenge in his cramped little room, his hands clenching and unclenching. This was just sodding ridiculous. Ninety years ago it hadn't been this hard. A hundred and thirty years ago the words had flowed from his pen as easily as the ink they were written in. Now, when he had something, someone, really worth writing about, nothing worked. Trite cliché followed overblown image, hackneyed simile fought for space with empty metaphor. Sad, pathetic junk, all of it.

 

He gripped the doorpost in his fists and slammed his head repeatedly into it.

 

"What's up, deadboy? Need any help with that? I can so offer my services."

 

"Shut up, Harris. Since when would I need help from a pathetic poof like you?" He scrabbled to collect the scraps and balls of paper into his arms. "Push off. Need some privacy here."

 

"Get the evil undead. My home, bleach-head, my rules. Feel free to smash your brains out any time, but keep the mess off the paintwork, right?" Satisfied with his easy victory, Xander moved on to the kitchen, stretching and yawning, intent on coffee and food.

 

Spike crushed the heap of paper into the waste bin. Enough was enough. He crammed the little box under his mattress. The Muse was on walkabout today. Who was he kidding? The Muse had been on walkabout all century. And the last. And the one before. Useless, pathetic git that he was, it was about time he dropped the whole stupid idea of writing poetry altogether.

 

Sleep was a good way of avoiding his utter, talentless uselessness. Scowling, he hurled himself down. Soon he was as still as all the other dead.

 

 

****

 

_   
1 Bastardised from "Demeter and Persephone", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson _

2 Shamelessly plagiarised (by Spike) from "A Girl" by Ezra Pound.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy and Dawn are sisterly. Not so much of the good, then.

Dawn caught the bag of pancake mix before much had spilled out. "Peanut butter? You did get peanut butter, right?"

 

Buffy rolled her eyes. What? It wasn't restricted to teenagers, after all. "Yes, Dawn, I got peanut butter. I got all the essentials of life plus a few luxuries like bread and cheese and, well, food. Don't worry, I won't force you to eat stuff that's too nutritious."

 

"Oooh. Snappy, much?"

 

"Yes, snappy. Where were you last night? Did you really think I wouldn't hear you climbing in across the roof? Dawn, I used that route myself for years. My excuse was slaying and world-saveage. What's yours?"

 

The collapse of confident young woman into shifty adolescent was instant. "I… I needed to go out."

 

"Why? Another spotty vampire teen-lover? More clothing with a hex on it? Give me a break. Dawn, I need to know you're safe. I can't do all this if I'm eaten up with worry about you. Who were you with?"

 

"No-one."

 

Glare.

 

"It wasn't like that."

 

Extra-strength economy-sized glare.

 

"Spike"

 

"You. Were with. Spike?"

 

Dawn pouted mulishly. "Yes, so I was quite safe you see."

 

"This is an interesting new definition of "safe" that means "out at night with a seasoned killer who has been stark raving mad for the last few months". I see."

 

"I was following him, if you must know. "

 

"There are so many kinds of wrong about that reply I hardly know where to start. Explain."

 

"I saw him hanging round outside the house, like he did a couple of years ago, before Mom…"

 

"When he was Stalker Guy? Things have moved on a little since then, you know. So then you decided to climb out the window?"

 

"I knew if I said anything you'd ground me, so where was the point? I followed him"

 

"So you said. And where exactly did this lead to?"

 

"Peaceview Cemetery. Just on the edge of town – you know."

 

"Why would he go there? It's too small and too new to have a proper crypt. What was he after?"

 

"Aha! You see why I followed! He was certainly out to get something. Turns out it was a box. Something precious in it too – he wouldn't give, even though I turned all the charms on him."

 

Dawn had a slightly inflated sense of her own manipulative powers. Century-plus-old vamps weren't quite such a pushover as a teenager might think.

 

"You see, Buffy, he's been odd lately – really distant. And I remembered that time he got a magic gem to restore his daylight activities? I thought it might be something like that."

 

"He's been really distant because you've been giving him a very good ice-queen of the Antarctic treatment. Even Spike takes a hint after you've hammered it in with enough nine-inch nails. It still doesn't excuse the following and tracking down stuff."

 

"Spike's a demon, right? I know what nearly happened last year. He could do some damage that would matter to us, if not in the whole demon-hunty scheme of things."

 

"Dawn, I don't know where you got this from. I do not want to know. I do not want to talk about it, now or ever. It was … complicated, right? Spike has a right to unlive his own unlife now." Even to Buffy as she said it, that sounded lame. Subject change imperative.

 

"A box, you say? What sort of box?"

 

"Wooden, carved, old. It seemed to have papers in it, Crispy old papers at that." There was a small heap of spilled flour on the worktop. Dawn traced intricate patterns in it. "Whatever it was, he really didn't want me to see. So I thought I might just drop by to see Xander on the way back from school tomorrow. Don't we need something mending? I could ask him."

 

Casa Summers always needed something mending. It would be easy enough for Dawn to call in. What happened then was, well, whatever did happen. No need for Buffy to ask too closely.

She knew very well what Dawn was capable of. Just a little encouragement was all it needed. The idea was outrageous and immoral. On the other hand. No. Buffy made it clear she could not condone it.

 

"I want it clearly understood I do not condone this. This box is his property. Or someone's. Not ours at least. I do not give permission."

 

Dawn grinned. "Understood, O wise Sister. Now, where was that peanut butter exactly? I'm in an experimental pancake mood, and peanut butter I must have." As Buffy turned to the cupboard the grin became sly, the eyes calculating. Plans were afoot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn puts her plan into action and meets an unexpected character.

Dawn was bidding fair to become Princess Broody, she decided. Whatever it was in that box of Spike's, she needed to know. And that meant Action-Plan Girl to the fore. Late morning, she knew from experience, was a time when Spike was usually as deep asleep as any animated corpse could be – and that was pretty deep.

 

 

Xander was delighted to welcome his little Dawnie to his apartment. The days of her crush on Big Old Xander were long gone, but she knew very well that he looked back on them nostalgically still. A girl who knew what she was doing could make something of that.

 

"Well, hello Dawnie! What brings you here this fine Saturday morning? Monsters to slay? Windows to mend? Ask away, for I am the Man Who Mends."

 

"Well, there are just a few things need looking at, when you have a moment. I told Buffy I might drop by on my way to meet Janice. You don't mind our asking do you?"

 

"Not at all. Your casa is my casa. I rebuilt most of it once already. How can I help? "

 

"You remember the window you fixed two weeks ago? The handle is kinda sticking. Buffy says we need the fresh air after a popcorn and movies session. I wonder…"

 

"On it already. Coming?"

 

Dawn cast around for a good reason to stay. "Hey, is that Futurama I see there? That is so cool! Can I stay here and watch it? Buffy's kinda grumpy this morning, and the noise…"

 

"Won't sweeten the sisterly temper, hey? I get it. OK, Dawn, you get to stay and watch cartoons. Spike's in his room – you OK with that now?"

 

"Yes, we sorta made up after that jacket incident. He was, well, pretty sweet about it really. I'm good. You got ice cream?"

 

"Dawn, it's eleven in the morning! You want ice-cream?"

 

"Teenager here. Remember?"

 

Knowing he was not going to win this one, Xander motioned vaguely at the freezer, grabbed his toolkit and left.

 

Dawn went through the motions of putting on an episode of the cartoon show. She allowed herself to be distracted by it for two – well, ten – minutes. Then she took a deep breath and carefully approached the door to the erstwhile closet.

 

The chrome handle twisted slowly but noiselessly, and she gently pushed the door ajar. The girl stood in the doorway as she took in the room. Xander's stuff took up quite some space still – there was a drafting table and a music player with a heap of CDs. On the bed sprawled the vampire, the soft sheets almost completely covering him. That was actually quite a relief – Dawn had almost forgotten that he really was hot. She was alone in the bedroom of an attractive and quite possibly naked vampire. Not something she would particularly enjoy explaining away to anyone who caught her.

 

That box really wasn't so important, right? There were cartoons she hadn't seen and almost certainly cookie dough ice cream a few steps away. Or she could just go back to Buffy.

 

Who might be in denial but knew very well what Dawn planned to do and who would never let her forget it if she…

 

Deep breath, Dawn. Ghosting the door further open, she sidled in, giving the bed as wide a berth as possible. Beyond it were random heaps of things. A crutch. A swimming trophy. She shook her head. There was no explaining what some men would hoard. A cheap, low chest of drawers – with a space behind it. Worth a shot.

 

Infinitesimally slowly Dawn drifted across the room and moved the objects, one by one, till she could stand looking above the chest. Aha! Down there, at floor level, was a polished box. An ornately-carved polished box – and a familiar one at that. Hardly breathing at all she reached down and nudged it to the side, into her other hand, waiting to catch it as it fell.

 

One agonisingly slow step after another, she retreated from the room. At the door she reached carefully to shut it behind her, then froze as the body on the bed shifted slightly, the covering sliding down to reveal a smooth back curving down to narrow hips. Her sister would so not appreciate any ogling of the ex-boyfriend. Dawn really did not understand the complicated affairs of her elders – nor did she want to. But it was fairly clear what counted as taboo round here, and Spike's body definitely fitted that description.

 

Three steps to the couch and she collapsed down, grabbing her bag. Here and now were very much neither place nor time to investigate her trophy. She shoved it right to the bottom, under a heap of stuff – makeup, pantyhose, you name it. No man, even a century-old Big Bad, would dare risk the wrath of a woman whose bag had been ransacked.

 

The cartoon was only a few minutes more advanced, yet it felt as if hours had passed since she'd put it on. Fry and his companions were a good distraction, and she permitted herself to stay to watch the end.

 

"Well, hello. If it isn't the little Bit. What you doing here, love? I don't think Builder Boy's around right now. Or is it yours truly you're hunting down?" He looked pathetically eager for her company. The easy companionship of a year ago had vanished after one brutal night, but it wouldn't be too hard to build up something to take its place. Buffy seemed happy enough to talk to him.

 

At the bottom of her bag a box was sending out radio waves. It was glowing in the dark. It was burning its way through the canvas fabric.

 

"Xander said I could watch his cartoons. He's rebuilding the house again and it's all noisy and messy there and oh God I'm gibbering. I'd better go."

 

"No need to leave on my account, pet. I can go back in my room if you like. I don't have to hang around if it bothers you."

 

Dawn muttered something incoherent and clutched the precious bag to her chest. She stumbled to the door. "Library! Just remembered – I must get to the library. I have books to read. And borrow. Gotta go now."

 

She sidled to the door, grasped it and pulled it open. Spike raised a scarred brow, his head tilted in surprise. "Not like you, pet. No need to run off now."

 

"Sorry. I do have to run. Off, I mean. Buffy needs me. To be at the library I mean. To get books. Yes, books. Gotta go now. Bye." With a sigh of relief she scurried down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

 

The library was clearly a no-go. If the box had magic exploding thingamajigs in it, she'd be a touch noticeable. OK, it had felt like papers, not mystical gizmos, but Dawn had learnt to be careful a long while ago. Sometimes she even put what she'd learnt into practice.

 

Sunnydale might be a dead zone for teenagers, apart from the Bronze, which was too full of adults to be totally cool, but it did have one thing going for it. Anyone with any sense at all could find a dozen quiet, private spots within ten minutes' walk of anywhere. Admittedly, most of these were already occupied, but by owners who were unlikely to make much fuss. Thus Dawn found her way efficiently to Peaceview Cemetery, where she'd followed Spike not so long ago, and to an overgrown corner of the plot. It was broad daylight – what could be safer?

Dawn settled down onto a convenient stump and tentatively opened the box. As she had half-expected, a stack of yellowing papers came into view, covered in brownish copperplate script. This stuff was really old. Probably some spell or curse – quite justifiably in need of investigation. She lifted a bundle out onto her lap and began to read.

 

It took about three sheets of paper for comprehension to begin. It was hard to read the flowing script, full of odd curlicues, even without the mess clearly made by a distracted poet. The writing was blotted, full of crossings-out and heavily scored. One piece of paper showed the signs of having been crumpled into a ball, then smoothed out again. She looked once more into the casket – at the bottom were what looked tantalisingly like modern sheets of lined paper. She reached down towards them.

 

At that moment the entire box was knocked from her lap. A pair of hairy, gnarled paws gripped her shoulders, and a foul stench of sewer-breath made her gag and cough. She twisted, ducked and butted her head forward, just as she had been taught. With a roar her assailant stumbled back fractionally and gathered itself for a spring.

 

Whatever sort of demon this was, it was no Hygiene Fairy. Pus-filled skin was coated in green slime, which in places had its own little mould colonies well on their way to a new stage of evolution. Antlers dripped another sort of mucus, sending drops flying in every direction. The creature shook its head – which, eeuw – and moved to the attack.

 

Dawn sidestepped and lashed out with a kick to the knees. It staggered back and she saw its bigger, uglier friend behind it. What had happened to creatures of the night staying in the night? As both demons lunged for her she grabbed a branch above her head and swung both feet in a powerful blow. The first demon was down. The second growled and hurled itself towards her. Dawn kicked out and let go, flying backward but landing on her feet.

 

This was not the time for pseudo-Slayer antics, though – this thing was bigger, heavier and very much uglier than she was. Time to get the hell out of there.

 

She was half a mile away before she remembered the box.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike reaches a wider audience than he wanted.

It was well into the afternoon before Spike stirred for the second time. He flipped from fully asleep to fully awake in a moment and sat up, stretching languorously. Pushing the sheets back abruptly, he stood up, reaching for his trousers. Mistake. In that bloody cramped hole nothing was far enough away for stretching and reaching. Some godawful sports trophy (_Xander? Sports?_) went flying and, as he lunged to catch it, so did a rail full of clothes. Things even the undead had too much taste to be seen in. Shit. The heap on the floor was a hideously coruscating mess of colour. Well, it could sodding well stay there.

 

Cursing fluently he staggered to the door. He leaned against it for support as he pulled on the bare minimum he needed to feel decent, then jerked it open.

 

Nobody there. Thank God for that – the trouble with living with the boy was the permanent possibility of a string of girlish visitors at any time of day or night, always ready to stare at a bloke and ask pointless questions before anyone was likely to be awake. Women had no respect for a man's need to grunt and be silent for half an hour after waking – Dru had been just as bad.

 

Fridge. Blood-bag. Open it. Microwave. Aahh. Much better.

 

He drained the mug in one gulp and left it in the sink. No doubt monkey boy would whinge, but housework was for losers, and who knew more about that ecological niche than Xander? Late afternoon, Saturday. With a gazillion bloody channels there had to be something on the box, preferably something violent and gory, something soothing. He sprawled on the couch, preparing to spend some quality time with the remote control.

 

The door slammed open. That could only mean one person, a woman who was constitutionally incapable of opening a door gently, at least into any room Spike was in. Without turning his head he called, "Hello, Slayer? Funny time of year for the end of the world."

 

He was slightly surprised to receive no annoyed answer. He twisted his head to see not just his Slayer, but his landlord and his Platelet too. All of them looked remarkably shifty.

 

Buffy marched Dawn round the couch till they both stood in front of him. Xander waited near Spike's door, looking uncomfortable.

 

"Spike, Dawn has something she needs to say to you."

 

"Well, is that right? Sorta thought the Bit wasn't doing too much speaking to me these days. Not that I can complain, mind you. I know..." He trailed off. He might feel embarrassed, but she was looking worse. "Come on, spill. More helping yourself to things belonging to others? Shops banning you again?"

 

Dawn flinched. She gulped, then took a deep breath.

 

"It's all right, pet. You don't have to confess to me if you don't want to. Nice to see you round, but I get that you're not comfortable with me any more. No hard feelings here."

 

Dawn gulped again.

 

"Spike, shut up. This is serious and Dawn has to tell you."

 

Dawn gulped. Again. Her mouth opened. And shut again. "Spike. I..."

 

Buffy had That Look on her face. It was a look Spike was all too familiar with – and it felt strange seeing the full megawattage aimed at someone else. It was working, too – Dawn was visibly wilting.

"Spike, remember that box I saw you with yesterday?"

 

Suddenly it was all just a touch less amusing. He responded levelly, "Yes. What of it, pet? Brought it right home."

 

"I – I know you did. But I wanted to know what was inside. Papers of some sort – could have been really important."

 

"Important in a totally unimportant way. Yes?"

 

"So. So this morning I went into your room while you were asleep and found the box where it was behind the nightstand and took it and came back in here and when you came out I said I had to go and I had it in my bag all along. I wasn't going to keep it. I totally meant to put it back."

 

"Not good, Bit. Not good at all. But no harm done, hey? Just hand it over and we'll forget all about it, right?" Somehow he knew it really wasn't right. Some things had to be said though, regardless of outcome.

 

"That's the bad bit. I wanted to read it, see? So I went somewhere quiet to have a look. And – well – I lost the box."

 

Spike surged up towards Dawn, golden glints in his eyes, brow ridges starting to form. "You did bloody what?"

 

"I lost it. That is, it was, kinda, taken from me. I didn't have a chance, Spike." Her voice had shrunk almost to inaudibility.

 

"Taken from you? Bloody buggering sodding hell! The contents too? All of it?"

 

Buffy stirred, then sharply restrained herself. So she was expecting the Bit to take her medicine, was she? Interesting that she trusted the Big Bad Vamp not to hurt her sis too badly.

 

The faintest of whispers, "Yes, all. Every bit of paper. Except, well, this one. I was looking at it when he jumped me."

 

Ignoring the paper, he had to ask, "Who jumped you, pet? What was it?" Somehow he even managed a tiny touch of kindness in his voice. Spook the brat now and he'd never find out what had happened. And besides, this was Dawn. Snack-size just attracted trouble, any day of the bloody week. Wasn't fair to blame her.

 

"It was a demon of some sort."

 

Spike stifled a groan. All he needed – that stuff in demon hands. Might just as well go straight down to Willie's and announce himself a pathetic wanker in front of he entire demonhood of Sunnyhell.

 

"What sort, Dawn? You can tell me. I won't bite. Look, no fangs!"

 

She managed a watery smile at that, after a swift check that the fangs were indeed not visible. "I don't know the type. He was sorta slimy, though."

 

To his surprise, Spike discovered that an unbeating heart can still sink into your boots. "Slimy? How so?"

 

"Covered in it – like mucus. Oh, and he had great big antlers."

 

Bloody brilliant. All the demons in the world to stumble across his secret, and it had to be a fucking Chaos demon. With his luck he knew just which one it would be too.

"Let me get this straight. You took my box and now a Chaos demon has it? And all that's left is just that one sheet?"

 

Silently, Dawn held it out. Spike ignored it. His hands were too busy holding his head.

 

Intrigued, Xander moved forward, hand outstretched. Buffy got there first, though, and twitched it out of Dawn's hands, settling on a chair to look at the sheet. Her eyes began to widen as she read.

 

"Spike, what the hell is this? Some sort of spell?"

 

At this angle he couldn't see which was the sole survivor of his creative output. Please God not the one that rhymed "Slayer" with "lay her".

 

"Dunno, pet. Lots of things in there. Personal things."

 

Dawn opened her mouth, saw his glare and closed it again. Buffy returned her attention to the paper. She started to read aloud.

 

_  
I'll tell thee why my sad tears stream,  
And why mine eyes are dim with weeping.  
I dreamt of thee, beloved one  
I dreamt thou wert safe in my keeping. _

I saw thee lying in my arm  
The bloom on your cheek pinkly glowing  
I kept thee safe from all that could harm  
And on thy brows gay flowers were blowing.

Beloved, thou wast all desire,  
Thy heart was mine, for me twas beating;  
Our bodies wreath'd with lambent fire  
And yet I knew our joy was fleeting.

 

Spike slumped lower into his seat. His hands now gripped his hair, threatening to rip out handfuls. Oh God, please, a merciful stake?

_  
I woke, ah, dearest, all alone,  
My body and my heart were yearning  
None other have I loved so true  
In all the century since my turning._

Ah, Buffy, mid the realms of light  
I see thou art forever gleaming  
As glorious as a seraph bright  
While I am far beneath thy deeming

All that I ask, O glorious girl,  
A smile, a look, a touch of love  
And while I'm burning then in hell  
I'll dream of thee in Heaven above.

 

The atmosphere was clotted with silence. Xander looked at Spike, disbelief writ large across his features. Dawn sat on the edge of a small table, shaking. Buffy just stood, white-faced. Spike was in the closest position to foetal he'd been in for over a century and a half.

There was a strange, choking sound from near the door. Buffy shot a razor look at Xander, just daring him to move, let alone smile, let alone speak.

"Spike? Is it all like this?"

A muted bellow of agony.

"Spike, how many were there?"

Almost inaudible. "Far too bloody many."

No-one moved. Eons passed and still no-one moved. Eye-contact In such circumstances was virtually impossible. Spike looked crumpled, fragile beyond all measure.

"Right, Wordsmith, we have to act." In amazement, Dawn and Buffy turned to look. Xander looked determined, serious, totally disinclined even to a smirk. "Dawn, exactly where were you when this attack happened?"

A blue, suspicious eye glared from under an arm still wrapped around a shock of white hair. "If you're taking the piss, Harris…"

"No, man, I am not. This stuff matters to you. More importantly, you've named my friend. It's not the only one is it?"

A muffled grunt, "No."

"Well, if you think we're letting every wannabe Bigbad in Sunnydale read this stuff and quote it back at Buffy, you really are crazy. More than we thought you were, even."

Dawn stared across at Buffy, suddenly stricken. "Oh my God, I just didn't think! If they are all like that and all about you, they so will pass them round."

Spike uncurled. He looked drawn. If he could have gone paler, he would have done. "It's worse, pet. It was a Chaos Demon took the poems from you. He'll want to use them to cause maximum chaos – it's his trade. I am so far up shit creek, I think I'm gonna have to leave town."

Buffy crossed to him and gripped him by the arms. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing writing this stuff?"

"Didn't ever mean to share it, luv. Not all of it is about you. Some of it goes back to my human days. Always been a crap poet. Not very likely to change that now."

Humility generally worked with difficult women, and it worked now. Buffy relaxed a fraction. "OK, first priority is to get this stuff back. It's either Willy's or wherever Dawn was jumped."

"Peaceview Cemetery," Dawn was again almost inaudible. Spike's jaw dropped. The Bit seriously thought a cemetery a sensible place to go to be private? He really despaired sometimes.

Buffy, too, looked taken-aback. Once more, Xander took the lead. "We'd better start there, then. The tracks might be relatively fresh." He grabbed his toolbag, which made no sense at all to Spike, and strode off, the others trailing, in varying degrees of thoughtfulness and misery, in his wake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steps are taken to find lost property - and to share the results.

Peaceview looked no more attractive in the dusk than it did in the moonlight. Cheap, dead flowers, still in their shop-wrappings, cluttered the few graves not covered in moss and overgrown with rank grass. Even the trees drooped, as if standing up was just too much bother. The dispirited little party stood in the centre, where a battered angel presided over a collection of illegible stones. Dawn scuffed the gravel with her toes.

 

"So, pet, wanna tell us exactly where you were?"

 

"Over there, somewhere. I think. Yes – I sat on that stump. He came at me from behind."

 

Before she had finished speaking, Xander and Spike were at the stump and on their knees, searching the ground for clues.

 

"Leaves. Dead leaves. More dead leaves. Sodding leaves everywhere."

 

"That's enough, Deadboy. Just stay with the looking, OK?"

 

For a few minutes the only sounds were of rustling and under-breath swearing. Buffy and Dawn stood out of the way, recognising the utter seriousness of Guy Business and reluctant to intervene in a limited space. Eventually Spike straightened and threw a handful of dried leaves away from him in disgust.

 

"Never was a bleeding Scout, you know. That Baden-Powell wanker was after my time. This lot means absobloodylutely nothing to me."

 

Xander sighed. "Hate to have to admit it, but same here. Not a single clue I can find. So where now?"

 

Buffy's eyes rolled. "Where do we usually go for news on the demon front? Dawn, go home. Straight home. Xander – will you take her?"

 

Xander opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Dawn was less constrained. "Buffy, it's so not fair. I ought to be involved. I'm not a kid any more you know."

 

"I think you have done about enough in your own special way. I need to know you are safe and at home. Don't argue. Spike and I are going somewhere you would be in the way. Very much in the way."

 

Xander intercepted the pout. "C'mon, Dawnie. Time we were elsewhere." He grasped her by the arm and steered her out of the cemetery, talking to her in a low undertone as they went.

 

Left alone with Buffy, Spike became suddenly very interested indeed in the leaves he had dismissed so contemptuously moments earlier. "So. Where we going? Willy's?"

 

"Where else? But, Spike…"

 

"Don't. Just – don't? Look, I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. Never meant you to be. By rights I oughta be cross with the Bit, but what was she to know? Once a bleeding pillock, always a bleeding pillock it seems."

 

"I don't think you're a – what the heck is a pillock anyway? No, don't answer. I don't think you are one."

 

Spike raised his head, astonished. "Can't say you like that stuff, love. Even I know it's crap, and I wrote it."

 

"I like poetry. I can't say I wasn't – surprised - to come across my name in the middle of that."

 

"That derivative Tennysonian bollocks, you mean? I should never have taken the writing up again."

 

Buffy paused. "Not sure what you mean with half of that. But it was, well, kinda sweet. Not that it means it means anything or anything, but, well…" She tailed off.

 

Spike carefully avoided her eyes. "Willy's, then?"

 

Relief you could almost touch covered her face. "Yes, Willy's. He's likely to know of any new demons in town, surely?"

 

Even more carefully, Spike avoided pointing out that this was exactly where his works might be doing the rounds. Buffy could work that one out for herself.

*****

In characteristic Summers style, Buffy slammed the door open and strode up to the bar. The shifty little man winced and turned to his array of glasses. As he did so, he caught sight of Spike and began to grin.

 

"Well, if it isn't Mr Wordsworth himself! Come in, sit down. Got an ode to share?"

 

Spike grimaced. That chaos demon hadn't wasted much time.

 

"So, this is your lovely layer – I mean, slayer, is it? Cute."

 

Buffy reached across the counter and gripped the barman by the throat. She dragged him towards her, knocking two absurd little votive candles to the floor, where they splintered into pools of red and gold. Loosing her grasp, she dumped her prey onto the shards of glass and, turning, swept the remaining lamps on top of him.

 

"Hey! Watch the décor! Those lamps cost, you know."

 

Spike snarled. "The prices you charge, a complete rebuild of this shithole could come out of small change. Now, perhaps you'd like to explain to the Slayer here just what you were talking about?"

 

"Slayer? As in The? I didn't mean it. Just joshing you…"

 

"Really? You haven't answered Spike's question, have you?" There was a touch of grimness in Buffy's voice.

 

"Perhaps I can help you?" A deep rumble undercut the babble in the bar, which suddenly died down a little. "Your vampire friend has been, shall we say, a touch careless with your name. I have some highly amusing pieces of paper over there. My friend Chuck gave them to me without much persuasion." The demon towered above the other inhabitants of the watering-hole. His skin was smooth, almost oily in texture, a deep lavender in colour. Around his jaws were glistening tentacles, each ending in a bony fang. Cowering behind him, a slimy, antlered demon smiled placatingly in their general direction.

 

Spike was not fooled. In two strides he was looming over the chaos demon. "Chuck, eh? I might have known it. Had enough of Dru, have you? Come to try buggering up my life just one more time?"

 

"N-no, not at all. Didn't know it was your stuff. Wouldn't have done you down for the world."

 

"Don't give me that CRAP! Bleeding chaos demon, int ya? Just doing what comes naturally. Well, get this. I do what comes naturally too – including ripping your fucking throat out!" The brows shifted, the fangs descended and the eyes glinted gold.

 

The dark, rich voice of his other adversary stopped him in mid lunge. "I really do not think you want to do that, Vampire. I just happen to have your missing papers, and if you hurt my source, you could find your drivelling scrawls in every demon dive in California."

 

Spike growled, but Buffy's hand was on his shoulder. For some reason she didn't want a fight here, or now. He looked up and was surprised to see a set, still expression of resolve on her face. She glanced down and jerked her head curtly towards the door.

 

Spike relaxed his grip and wiped the worst of the slime off on his jeans. He stood, warily and retreated step by step. Buffy stood very still as he moved, her hands loosely by her sides. Two steps more and Big Purple was between them. With the practised ease only two people who have fought together for years could achieve, they moved in concert. Buffy kicked low and hard at the demon's legs. Spike grabbed a handful of tentacles and twisted, viciously.

 

Off-balance but undefeated, the demon clawed at Spike's hair, tangling a peroxide mass in his fist. Spike yelped but moved into the grip, rolling his head up and into his adversary's face. Sharp spurs on the demon's own hands dug into its cheeks and ripped a long gash. Pulling back slightly, Spike gained a purchase on the bar-rail and launched himself, shoulder-first, into the creature's chest.

 

Buffy leapt at the juke-box and tore a length of piping from the wall behind it. The seventies music ground on, reminding Spike of just why punk had been such a blessed relief, and Buffy twirled the pipe rhythmically in time to it. She slammed it into the back of the demon's head, then its ribs, then a swashing blow took out its knees just as Spike hit just below the right shoulder. Demon and vampire hit the floor in a heap together.

 

The lavender mobster was not yet down and out. It squirmed from beneath and a spray of acrid liquid hit the vampire full in the face. Spike swore loudly and inventively and lashed out. As it tried to roll away Buffy planted the pipe onto the floor and leapt over its body, both feet landing with precision where its nose might well have been, if it had one.

 

Boots with heels might not be regulation wear in Every Girl's Guide to Destroying Demons, but this time they came in handy. With a sickening squelch a stiletto went deep into an eye and green liquor bubbled out, frothing down the face. A further swift kick to the chin and it lay on the floor, a seriously stroppy Slayer leaning gently on her length of pipe as it dug into the neck and tentacles.

 

Chuck, meanwhile, had started to sidle towards the door. Too late. As soon as it was clear his Slayer had everything under control, Spike launched himself at the slimy creature. He grasped the antlers and powered the head downwards till the antlers made contact with the purple demon's coat. A quick, lithe movement and his foot was on the back of Chuck's head. One stamp and the big demon would be neatly impaled.

 

"I'm not enjoying this very much," said Buffy, plaintively, "I have some nasty slime on my favourite boots. I'm getting bored now. I think you have something belongs to my friend. Now why don't you tell your nasty little pal over there to bundle together all those papers and pass them right over here?"

 

Spike applied just a touch more pressure with his boot. Both demons yelped satisfyingly and the purple monster, its voice a long way from the chocolate and velvet tones it had started with, yelped, "Do what the girl says!"

 

A rotund, puffy demon with a face like a walnut hastened to the table and began to sort the sheets together. A yelp from its master as Spike once more applied pressure with his boot and there was a neat heap.

 

"Now, my friend wants his property back. And a box, I think?"

 

In agonised tones an order was hissed out. Walnut-face thrust a package of papers and a familiar carved box into Spike's hands, then retreated as fast as it could.

A heavy black boot made abrupt contact with a slimy chin, while Buffy slammed the side of her weapon across the temple of her own adversary. Stooping with a wince of disgust she wiped her hands across his clothes, then tipped a glass of beer over them. "Looked like you needed a bath anyway," she announced, before stepping away carefully.

 

Both demons lay inert. In the corner of the room a squid demon turned to his companion. "Fancy another Persian Blue? I'm buying." The level of ambient babble returned to normal. The Slayer had clearly achieved her aims and no general massacre was in view. A good evening, then.

 

Spike was at his Slayer's shoulder, glaring at anyone or anything that might dare to move. "Check they're all there," Buffy muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

 

"All present. As far as I can tell. Time to go, pet?"

 

"I think so. The company's not so stimulating here any more. The place has gone to the dogs, really."

 

Spike packed the precious papers into the box as the two of them edged out of the room. He might never be able to show a fang in the place again, but at least they wouldn't have the stuff to read aloud in his hearing now. As they reached the door the juke box coughed into life. Barry bleeding Manilow. The last straw. He groped behind him, pulled open the door and they left.

*****

A small, intense group waited for them at Revello Drive. Dawn paced the room, while Willow sat close to Xander, but all three turned expectantly as the door opened. Spike gulped. Demon bars were easy compared to facing assembled Scoobies.

 

A small hand gripped his for a moment. His eyes opened in astonishment as she murmured, "Let me handle this, OK?" Anything beyond a nod was impossible.

 

"We've been to see a demon about a box," Buffy announced matter-of-factly. "Now all we have to establish is where Spike can keep his things safe from interfering teens. Any ideas, Dawn?"

 

Her sister jerked her head up, a hunted expression crossing her face. Willow and Xander joined their pointed stares to Buffy's. Spike relaxed – suddenly it was all about the Bit, and for once he agreed it served her right. Kleptomania in shops was one thing. Amongst a vampire's secret possessions, quite another. He began to sidle toward the door again.

 

Buffy's arm blocked his way. No exit there without drawing attention to himself. He returned his gaze to Dawn. Rosy-red face, if not rosy-fingered. Damn, why wouldn't bloody poetry stay in its sodding place and out of his head? Hadn't it made enough trouble for him? He'd lost the thread now.

 

Xander was being reasonable. News enough in itself, that. He was explaining to Dawn in tones of measured calm that she really couldn't expect Spike simply to accept her word that she wouldn't look. What next? Builder Boy in a Demon Pride parade?

 

Willow was nodding her head in agreement. "You see, Dawnie, it's like I was with magic. I promised everyone I wouldn't, but I couldn't stop. If you know where it is, you're going to want to look."

 

"But there's nowhere else in Xander's apartment he could hide things. Is there? And isn't it too dangerous to go back to a graveyard?"

 

"That's why you're coming with us, now. We have to look in my apartment, see where I can build in a safe. A lockable safe." Xander stood. When did that boy suddenly start to take charge? When did he grow up?

A gentle shove from Buffy and Spike moved out of the way. As she passed him Dawn tried, and failed, to look him in the face. It would be a while before his Nibblet would be comfortable with him, but he'd known that anyway. The others left the room and could be heard chatting in the hall.

 

Somehow he'd made it thus far without a single mocking word from the witch or the builder. It couldn't last, but sufficient unto the day…

 

Buffy waited till the others had gone, then shook herself. "Right. Downstairs."

 

"What? Your basement? Why?"

 

"Because it's where laundry happens. Something Dawn seems to believe does itself by magic. So she doesn't know every bit of it. The best place to hide something is under her nose. I have a new box for you to put it in, so that you can put the original in whatever safe place she comes up with."

 

"Colonel Buffy's been thinking I see. Nice work, pet. Kinda sorry to lose the old box, though – it's been with me in a lot of odd places."

 

Buffy rolled her eyes, "Spike, you won't lose it. Dawn wouldn't be stupid enough to take it again, but I don't trust her not to look. I don't trust anyone much."

 

"Even you, pet?"

 

"Even me. Which is why you're going to read them to me before we go down together to hide them. That way I'm not going to need to be curious, am I?"

 

It's just as well jaws drop metaphorically, not literally, or the thud Spike's made would have shaken half of California. Read them? To Buffy? He gripped the back of the chair. This was to be his punishment.

 

Buffy settled on the couch, her legs curled beneath her. "Well, you can stand there and orate if you like, but there's room here beside me instead if you prefer. Or if you insist you can just let me read them to myself. But I want to know, one way or another. Please? William?"

 

When she called him by that name he was helpless. And she knew it. He slumped down to the floor, but rested his back against the couch. Close, but not too close. He opened the box and drew out the first poem. Shaking, for ten thousand demon warriors were less scary than one soft Slayer listening intently, and none of his scribblings could pass muster with his inner critic, let alone Buffy, he began to read.

 

_  
My star, shining in splendour in the night_

Watching me struggling with undying love

Watching me face myself in endless fight

Watching me turn my soul to heavens above.

For you I faced the mountains and the caves

For you I fought, for you I braved the fire

For you I crossed the endless moving waves

For you returned, O core of my desire.

 

I cannot ever give you back belief

Recall the moment of my rashest move

Or salve with purest waters all the grief

I caused to thee in pressing of my love.

But till the Dark eats up my soul, I swear

I'll stay beside thee, daring as you dare.


End file.
